


the hare and the hound

by aeridi0nis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Remus Lupin, Full Moons, Gen, Just real sad, Poor baby :(, Remus Lupin Angst, Remus Lupin Crying, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Remus Lupin Whump, Welsh Remus Lupin, Werewolf Remus Lupin, Werewolves, Young Remus Lupin, shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeridi0nis/pseuds/aeridi0nis
Summary: ‘He’ll never have to do it again, Remus realises. He can just keep being good, if he just behaves, he’ll never have to do it again, never with the dark and the bleeding and the crying. He just can’t give them reason to be angry at him, and he won’t, he hasn’t. And his mum is right – the drink does make him feel a little better.’***Remus is a terribly behaved five-year-old. He doesn’t really think so himself, but his parents lock him in the cellar every month, so he must be doing something to deserve it. Well, not anymore. He’s got a plan, see, sort of. He’ll never go downstairs again.
Relationships: Hope Lupin & Lyall Lupin & Remus Lupin, Hope Lupin/Lyall Lupin
Comments: 35
Kudos: 64





	the hare and the hound

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn’t much!! just wanted to try writing young remus, too-young-to-understand remus even though it makes me sad :( thank to everyone ever who’s interacted with my other stuff!! i cannot stress enough how much those comments make my week :) anyway here’s this!! poor baby, he has no idea 
> 
> songs:  
> devil town - cavetown  
> dedicated to the one I love - the mamas & the papas  
> all my loving - the beatles

It’s only a plan in a fairly loose sense of the word, but it’s still the best plan Remus has had so far.

The month before, however, was an unequivocal disaster, and the overwhelming failure of _that_ plan is for the most part what spurred him to take such a contrasting approach this month. Conferring strenuously with his toys, he’s reevaluated and regrouped. Really, he concludes, he should’ve known better, but truthfully Remus has grown desperate. His father is so much stronger than him anyway, so it had been no good to fight and kick and dig his heels in; he had just scooped him up as easily as one picks up a basket of laundry, carried Remus downstairs completely unhindered by his screams and sobs. The ordeal – because that’s what getting Remus into the cellar is now: an ordeal – had made his mum cry, which had only served to anger his father further.

Remus’ mum hadn’t come down to the cellar with him last month, it’d only been his father, and he’d been so furious with Remus’ behaviour that he hadn’t even helped him with his clothes like one of them usually does, he’d simply sat Remus down on the floor and gone upstairs without a word. Consequently, Remus had ruined his favourite shirt – his blue one. He’s not sure how that had happened, to be honest, because down in the cellar he finds it hard to distinguish what’s real from what’s a nightmare, a task made more difficult by the aching darkness the room is shrouded in. He doesn’t understand what exactly it is that’s so painful when he’s down there, doesn’t understand what happens to him. It just _does_. Or, in the spirit of optimism, it just _did._

Yes, last month’s plan would never have worked. Remus, as most five-year-olds, cannot fight his father, and if he behaves badly he figures it’ll just make them want to lock him downstairs even more. He’s bad all the time, every month, he _must_ be, and it makes his parents angry enough to leave him there in the dark for the whole night. It’s so scary. It’s the scariest place Remus has ever been, because it hurts _so much._ He knows that’s the point, because it’s a punishment, right? Last month, he was far worse than usual: he’d hoped he might be able to fight his parents off when they came up to his room to get him. It was a silly plan, and Remus isn’t a silly boy. That’s why this month’s plan is so much better.

It goes, he explains to his shelf of toys, as follows: he’s going to be the _best_ boy. Well, he _has_ been the best boy – today is the last day of his plan (he knows from the way his father marks the calendar) so he’s kicking it up a notch. He’s going to be so utterly, completely good today that there’s no way they could possibly be angry at him, and if they aren’t angry they won’t take him downstairs. There’s an unfortunately lackluster, dead-eyed response from his toys, and Remus feels the familiar ache in his gut that he’s come to associate with wanting _friends._ He isn’t allowed any friends at the moment, probably because he’s too badly behaved.

Well, Remus thinks. _Not anymore_. _After today_ _, not anymore._

Tonight is a sort of test to see if his hard work (because even for boys as quiet as Remus, being good for a whole month _can_ be hard) has paid off, but Remus is so sure of the conclusion that he’s way past that, already thinking about sleeping in his own bed tonight instead of downstairs, and _tomorrow_ , when he’s sure they’ll let him make friends. He knows there are boys in his village; he sees them from his bedroom window, by the river, scuffing their knees and dropping sticks into the water. It’s a game he thinks he’d be rather good at. Just before pulling on his trousers, Remus looks down at his own knees. There are scars there too – already, they’ve got something in common. It’s all going swimmingly.

_I’ll never have to go downstairs again. All I have to do is behave._

It’s with great purpose, then, that Remus dresses himself today, combing his hair, picking his own jumper – a red, knitted thing from his grandmother, though he doesn’t see much of her anymore – and persevering with his shoe laces (three attempts and he gets it, it’s all about pinching the lace like a rabbit’s ear and pulling through). He’d usually still be in bed right now, but his father doesn’t know that the mechanical grunts of the front door when he leaves for work often wake Remus up. Some days, he finds, he can hear everything a lot better than at other times. It’s like it’s closer, and he can hear it all, feel the vibrations humming in the air – the rushing hiss of the river behind their house, the clink of his mum’s teaspoon against her blue, tea-filled mug from downstairs. It can be quite a lot, sometimes. Makes his head hurt.

Useful today, though. Hearing his father leave helped Remus get up early, whereas usually on days like this his mum will wake him up. He passes the door to downstairs – to the cellar - on the way to the kitchen (he has to, there’s only one way to get there), the polite, modest oak giving no indication of the powerful strengthening runes carved into the other side. It’s not a scary door, _shouldn’t_ be a scary door, but Remus knows better. He knows what’s behind it; cold stone and dried blood – _his_ blood - and fragments of stale air shattered by his screams from months prior. Remus is not fooled by the polished, mild face, and he instinctively quickens his pace when he passes it, lest it swings open of it’s own accord, drags him down it’s stairs regardless of the calendar. He used to be deathly afraid that one day, his parents simply wouldn’t let him out at all.

Before Remus had even crossed the upstairs landing he could hear his mum humming _All My Loving_ from the kitchen, and as he enters she breaks into the chorus lyrics with fresh enthusiasm, back to him as she fusses over the stove. Upon closer inspection, he sees that she’s making pancakes, which in and of itself has to be a good sign (it’s Remus’ favourite, and she wouldn’t make his favourite if he’d been bad, would she?). She flashes him a warm smile over her shoulder when she hears him come in.

‘Good morning, love! What’re you doing up so early? I was going to come and wake you up once this lot was ready,’ she explains, gesturing at the pale mixture bubbling in the frying pan. She shoots a glance at him again, longer this time. ‘Oh, did you get dressed yourself, Remus?’

He nods eagerly, taking his seat at the kitchen table.

‘You do your laces on your own, Remus? Like I showed you? Oh, my! Well done, love,’ she says, risking a burnt pancake to come over and press a kiss into his hair. She makes it back to the stove in time to transfer the pancake to the stack sitting on a plate beside her.

‘Like a rabbit,’ Remus recites. He hesitates, adding ‘I’m being good, Ma,’, just to eliminate any lingering ambiguity. She chuckles over the breakfast.

‘Yes you are love, you’re always good,’ (though this can’t be true, Remus figures, or they wouldn’t send him downstairs). ‘How’re you feeling, Remus?’

Actually, not good. Remus is dizzy, and there’s a dull ache behind his eyes that isn’t cured even when he presses his fists against his eyelids. His shoulders, his knees and his elbows (these are his _joints_ , he’s learned) feel stiff and sore, and it hurts a little when he walks. He’s also still fairly tired, but that he attributes to getting up earlier than usual. He doesn’t tell his mum any of this, however, because truly good boys don’t complain. So instead Remus sits there, legs dangling from a chair that’s slightly too big for him, and says ‘Fine.’ She won’t know he’s lying, so he isn’t being bad. It’s only bad if she finds out. He isn’t actually very hungry, but he’ll make an exception for his mum’s pancakes.

She comes over to him again, this time placing a glass in front of him. It’s filled with a greenish-brown liquid that’s steaming slightly and smells like the carrots in their garden when they’re left to rot, and tastes how Remus imagines the carrots in their garden taste when they’re left to rot. He’s familiar with the taste by now; she makes him drink it every month, and it’s _awful_ \- it’s a battle to keep it down at all, honestly. He remembers times where his mum has grown angry at him for refusing it, and that one really awful time where his father had held him, practically tipped it down his throat while he spluttered and cried. He looks up at her pleadingly now, and she raises an warning eyebrow.

‘Come on now love, don’t start, please.’

‘But I feel fine Ma, promise. I don’t need to.’

She sighs, reaching out to stroke the tawny hair at the nape of his neck. ‘I know, Remus, I know, but you have to drink it all if you want to stay fine, you know that. It just to make you feel better love, it’s for the pain. I know it’s horrible, but you’ll feel sick tonight, and we don’t want you to hurt. You can have as many pancakes as you want after, eh?’

Normally, Remus would’ve attempted another protest, but in the interest of being good he takes the glass slowly, staring straight at his mum while drinks, at first only in hesitant sips. She seems surprised that it wasn’t a fight this time (she doesn’t know, yet, of her son’s master plan of being _good_ ).

‘That’s it, there we go. Good boy, I know it’s horrible, I’m sorry love.’

There’s that phrase: _Good boy._ That’s proof if ever Remus has seen it, that _has_ to be a good sign, right? _It’s going to work._ They won’t lock him downstairs this time, won’t lock him downstairs _ever_ if he keeps it up. He won’t wake up tomorrow, cold and scared and hurt – not at all hurt, he’ll be able to go and play with the boys by the river. _Friends._ The excitement of it all spurs him on, he’s drinking more vigorously now and finding that if he swallows each gulp straight away, he can barely taste it. His mum had turned away, but peers over her shoulder again when she hears him place the glass back down.

‘Thank you, love. I’ll tell Dad how good you were when he gets home, eh? I’m sorry it’s so nasty, Remus, but it’ll make you feel better today, I promise.’

 _Yes! Tell Dad, and then Dad won’t want to take me downstairs, either. It’s all going to work._ He’ll never have to do it again, Remus realises. He can just keep being good, if he just _behaves_ , he’ll never have to do it again, never with the dark and the bleeding and the crying. He just can’t give them reason to be angry at him, and he won’t, he _hasn’t._ And his mum is right – the drink does make him feel a little better.

‘You ready for some breakfast now, eh?’

Remus nods again.

____

Remus always likes lessons, but he’s getting through his work quicker today, working harder, and she notices.

On some days – at his mum’s whim, he assumes, he can’t find a pattern – they’ll work outside on the little white garden table in front of their vegetable patch. Remus likes their lessons more when they’re outside, and it’s such a lovely day today: brilliant blue sky and frosty white sunshine stretching across the green patchwork quilt of Welsh countryside. It’s exactly the sort of day you’re meant to spend outside, and so Remus is a little disappointed when his mum says they need to stay in today. He doesn’t mention the fact that from his bedroom window he can see the other boys outside, kicking a ball and breaking into gleeful sprints to save it from straying into the river. No worries, he thinks. That’ll be him tomorrow. Today, he’ll stay inside. He’ll be good.

He’s very good at lessons, actually - that’s what his father says. His mum says he’s smart. His father says he needs to be ( _well, of course. Everyone needs to be smart, don’t they?_ ). His mum is a very patient teacher, too; they do maths and English and Welsh and he gets a story if they finish everything else early. He’s trying his very hardest today and he can tell his mum is impressed. He allows himself a self-satisfied little smile, and looks up from the book open in his lap.

‘Remus? Can you read this line for me?’

Admittedly, he had been a little distracted by the noises floating through the open window: the shouts of the boys behind his house, disrupted by splashes and choruses of laughter. The ball must have rolled down the river bank, because someone shouts ‘ _Quick, Ronnie, Go awn!’._ Remus wonders if Ronnie makes it in time. His gaze had settled on the window, staring longingly at the vast expanse of blue sky the fluttering lace curtain teases.

‘Sorry, Ma.’

‘It’s alright, love. I’m sorry you can’t go outside today, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not today. I’ll give you an extra story before dinner though, eh? Now, can you read this line for me?’

He wants to show her he can.

‘Neiddiod y ci brown dros y ffens..’

‘Good, keep going..’

‘I fynd ar ôl yr..’ He pauses for a moment, trying to make sense of the next string of letters. He breaks it down slowly, quietly.

’..Ysgyfarnog gyflym.’

‘Well done Remus! Can you tell me what that means in English? In this language?’

He can, almost. He tries.

‘The brown dog..the brown dog jumped over the fence to chase the..the speedy…I don’t know that one.’

His mum leans in and squints to see the line he’s pointing at. She’s got glasses for reading, but she never wears them.’That word? That says hare, that does. H-A-R-E.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s..they’re animals, a bit like rabbits, Remus. They’ve got long ears like rabbits, like the way we do your shoelaces, ears like that.’

‘Oh. Are there ones here?’

She leans back against the sofa they’re sitting on, pondering the question. Nods to herself. ‘Probably, yeah. In the forest down by the park, I think Dad’s seen some when he’s out walking.’

Remus adjusts the book in his lap so he can lean into his mum more. ‘Why does Da go for walks on his own?’

Her hand finds his hair, combing through it idly. ‘He likes to calm down by going for walks. Dad has a very hard job, love.’

‘Is he going to go today?’

‘Maybe, Remus.’

‘Can I go with him? To see the..to see the hares?’

Her fingers freeze in his curls, and Remus watches the space between her eyebrows crease up a little. He shouldn’t have asked, he wants to snatch the words back out of the air and swallow them down. He forgot all about his plan, about being _good._ He hopes this isn’t enough to make them want to send him downstairs. Outside, one of the boys must have done something rather impressive, because it’s earned a round of cheers and whoops and a singular _‘bloody hell’_. He’s startled back to their living room by his mum’s voice, close and soft.

‘Not today, love. It’s..it’s too busy out there today, and you might not be feeling very well later anyway. Maybe we’ll all go some other day, eh? I’m sorry, Remus. We’ll find something else to do.’

They don’t like him going outside. Even their back garden, he’s learnt not to wander out unsupervised – certainly no further than the vegetable patch, because the hedges down the end slope low and his father says ‘ _anyone can see in’. See what?_ Remus wonders. He assumes it’s his punishment; he’s not allowed to play outside because he behaves too badly. They certainly hadn’t let him outside after last month, after he’d fought them. It’s a little concerning, honestly, because he thought he’d been rather good this month, but if he still isn’t allowed outside he must be doing something wrong. _Be better_ _, then. One more day. Nearly there._

Remus doesn’t protest his mum’s verdict, simply opens the book back up and mumbles through the rest of the passage.

____

They always have dinner early on the nights they send him downstairs.

Remus can barely contain his excitement now. _It’s going to work. It worked._ He’s been so good, _so_ good, all day – his mum even told his father so when he came in from work, and he certainly hadn’t seemed angry at Remus at all. In fact, he read Remus a story before dinner – an extra one, too, since he hadn’t been allowed outside. They aren’t going to want to punish him, there’s no reason to punish him – he hasn’t been bad, not even a little. That’s why even though he feels very sick right now, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps eating his dinner while his parents discuss something his father seems very excited about. Something about his father having read something? He mentions Serbia, a cure? For what, Remus isn’t sure. But his father is excited, and he’s not angry, so Remus is content to leave it at that. There’s a word he does recognise, finally: dittany. His mum goes to check their stores – they have a lot of dittany in this house, the bitter scent makes Remus’ nose tingle.

‘How’re you feeling, Remus?’ His father asks, and Remus looks up from his plate to find his father smiling at him gently. He looks very tired, with those deep purple circles under his eyes. Remus is tired too, but it’s alright. They’ll both get to sleep tonight, and Remus’ll be in his own bed instead of downstairs on the floor in the dark.

‘Fine, Da,’ Remus lies. He feels quite jittery and sweaty, and his father notices. The corner of his mouth twitches downwards beneath his grey stubble.

‘You want some water?’

Remus nods, and Dad rises from the table, his chair making a long, low groaning sound against the floor that sets Remus’ teeth on edge. He returns with a glass and a smile.

‘Ma said you worked very hard today, Remus. Well done. You know you can tell us if you feel sick, alright? You don’t have to work..we won’t make you work on the days you’re sick, Remus. You understand?’

‘Feel alright, Da,’ he replies, finishing his water. He _did_ work hard today. They don’t seem angry at him at all, in fact, so he risks asking a question he’d been thinking about all day.

‘Da. When you go walking, are there hares?’

‘Are there what?’

‘Hares,’ Remus repeats matter-of-factly. ‘The ones that..that are like rabbits. They’ve got the ears, like rabbits do.’

‘Oh, _hares_ ,’ his father says (Remus doesn’t realise he’s been saying it sort of wrong. It should rhyme with ‘care’ not ‘car’). ‘Yes, I’ve seen hares in the forest. Lots of them, even little baby ones.’

Now, truthfully, Remus would quite like to see the hares, but he’s not even going to ask, because he doesn’t want to ruin the day by suddenly being bad at the end of it. His father watches him for a moment.

‘Did you know my patronus is a hare, Remus?’

He did not. He does not know what a patronus is. He shakes his head and his father chuckles, and draws his wand ( _not_ a toy, Remus has learned the hard way) from his waistband. _Oh, Da’s going to do magic!_ Remus loves magic, loves it more than the river and stories and his toys (even his black bear, Romulus) and pancakes (except maybe not Romulus). His father doesn’t do a lot of magic in the house. He says he’ll teach Remus to do it one day, though. He says he’ll teach him from home, and Remus simply can’t think of anything more exciting than that. Remus, doing magic! His mum can’t do magic, but that’s alright, because neither can Remus (he doesn’t know, yet, that it’s _him_ who shatters plates and makes the TV go static when he’s angry. Last month, when his father had taken him downstairs, he’d flung all the books from the bookshelf in the living room from down the hallway. His mum had screamed). Maybe they can learn together, at home (because where else?).

His father flicks his wand and spools of silver burst from the tip, stardust thread weaving around the room, around Remus’ head. He watches with wide eyes as the thread laces itself together, building into something more substantial, into a..into a..

A _rabbit!_

No, that’s a _hare_ (because his father said so). It looks just like a rabbit to Remus, though – not that he’s seen many. There’s really no difference, but that doesn’t matter, because this is _amazing._ There’s a _hare_ in their _kitchen_ , bounding around in front of him! It pauses quite close to Remus, twitching it’s ears and wrinkling it’s nose. He glances at his father and reaches a tentative hand to try and stroke it’s silvery back. He’s a little disappointed, honestly, when his hand passes straight through.

‘Not a real hare, Remus, so we can’t touch. But they look like this, the ones I see.’

That’s fine. Remus is happy to look, happy to watch it run around the room. He could watch it forever, and his father spends the next hour between eating and clearing up (which Remus helps with) casting it over and over again at Remus’ request, every time gazing at it just as awestruck as the first. When his mum comes back into the kitchen and sees it she jumps, says a bad word and nearly drops the bottle of dittany she’s holding, which makes both Remus and his father laugh. Having recovered, she sits at the table, pulls Remus onto her lap and they watch it together, practicing the Welsh word, ‘ysgyfarnog, ysgyfarnog, ysgyfarnog..’

It’s the best evening, and it’s about to get even better, because eventually Remus yawns and hops off of his mum’s lap, confident they’re about to let him go and sleep in his _own_ bed. His mum is asking his father for the time, but Remus needn’t worry about that, because he’s going to bed – going there himself, because he’s good. It’s only when his father answers and Remus is halfway out of the kitchen that his mum stiffens, calls him back in.

‘Remus?’ He turns to look at her. The silvery hare has faded away now.

‘It’s time, love.’

 _Time for what? Bed? Yes,_ Remus agrees. That’s actually where he was going before his mum stopped him. He cocks his head at her.

‘Time to go downstairs, Remus.’

_What?_

No, there’a been a mistake. He’s been good. _Good._ They don’t need to take him downstairs. They don’t need to punish him. He’s been _good._ He’s frozen in place at the doorway, shaking his head at her slowly.

‘Yes, love, come on. We’ve got to go downstairs, just for tonight. Come on, let’s go together, eh?’

She’s still sitting at the table, but she stretches her arm towards him and offers him her hand. He’s not going to take it. Barely above a whisper, comes ‘Please don’t make me.’ It’s small and quiet and it might as well be someone else talking. His father has his back to him while he washes dishes, but his hands have frozen in the sink. He’s gone eerily still.

‘Come on, Remus, let’s not do this,’ his mum says. ‘Just be a brave boy for me, you have to do this.’

Brave? Isn’t it enough that he’s been good? Or..maybe he hasn’t? Remus racks his brain, trying to find some memory of being bad enough to make them want to lock him downstairs. He goes through combing his hair, tying his laces, doing his work; goes through the last month and comes up empty. _Oh, dear._ What if he’s been so bad he can’t even remember all the bad things he’s done? That’s why they’re angry at him.

‘Please, Ma. Please, I don’t want to.’

He refuses to go over to her. ‘I know, I know, love, but you have to, I’m sorry, you have to, just for tonight.’

He barely notices himself start shaking. ‘Please,’ he whispers, like it’s a secret. ‘Please, it hurts so much.’

His mum stands, crosses over to the doorway, but Remus takes a few steps backwards to put more distance between them. ‘I’m so sorry, Remus. I’m sorry, but we have to do it. Just for tonight, let’s go together, I’ll go down with you.’

But Remus doesn’t want to go down at all, and he figures that if he’s been bad enough to make them want to put him downstairs, there’s really only one thing for it at this point.

‘I’m sorry, Ma, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I was bad, please don’t make me go, I’m sorry,’ he begs. He’s started to cry, but he doesn’t want to make them angrier so he wipes his eyes hastily on the sleeve of his jumper, and his mum takes the opportunity to reach out and pull him close against her, ignoring his attempts to wriggle free. She’s stroking his hair, whispering into his ear, but he can’t hear her, can’t hear anything but his own panicked breathing. ‘It’s not you, it’s not you, I’m sorry Remus, we just have to do this. I’m so sorry, we love you so much, Remus, please.’

 _That can’t be true._ If it’s not him, if it’s not because of something he’s done, why would they make him go down there? ‘I’m sorry, Ma, won’t do it again,’ (do what? He’s not sure) ‘Please don’t make me go down there, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be good.’

‘You _are_ good Remus, you are. So good—‘

‘ _No!’_ he screams suddenly, wrenching himself from her grasp and staggering backwards. At the sink, his father turns around rather sharply, fists clenched at his sides. The kitchen light above them is flickering softly. Well. He’s already made them angry, so what’s the point anymore? ‘ _No,_ I’m not going! I’m not! I’m not, I’m not _. Please,_ please don’t make me go, I don’t want to go, please, I’m not going to go—‘

‘Remus..’ his father begins, but Remus is desperate.

‘You can’t! I’m not! Not downstairs! It hurts, and I hate it! I _hate_ it!’

His mum reaches out for him again, but he backs away down the hallway until he’s not all that far from the door to the cellar. ‘Please, love, let’s not do this..’

‘Remus, we aren’t doing this again,’ comes his father’s voice, low and firm and resolute. Remus is never going to stop doing this, though. He doesn’t want to go. 

_Hate_ is a good word. Well, actually, it’s a bad one - a word he shouldn’t really say - but it’s a strong word. Big, bold letters. It makes a point. Serious. This is a serious situation. Remus uses it again.

‘I hate it! I hate it! Please, _please_ , I don’t know what’s happening!’ He shrieks, cheeks warmed by the tears that are now spilling freely. ‘Why d-do I always have to go? What’s going to happen to me?’

His mum starts forwards, wraps him in her arms. ‘Nothing, _nothing_ love, we’re here, we’ll be here when it’s over, it’ll all be alright, we just have to go, Remus,’ she murmurs, but it’s muffled against his hair and it isn’t calming him down. Nothing’s going to calm him down. Remus doesn’t want to be calm. He wants to cry, so he does.

‘Hope, we don’t have much time,’ his father says.

‘He’s just scared, Lyall.’

‘He doesn’t have a choice.’

‘I’m not! I didn’t do anything! I hate it! I hate it!’

‘Remus—‘

‘I _hate_ you!’

He doesn’t, and he does. He doesn’t hate either of them, not really, but he hates the fact that they make him go down there, hates them for what it’s like down there. Hates himself for being bad enough to deserve it. What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he be good, like the other boys, who are allowed outside? It’s the worst thing he could’ve said, but they want to make him go anyway, so what does he care? His father is stalking towards him now, face steeled. His mum is crying. He didn’t mean to make her cry.

‘We’re going, Remus. We don’t have time for this. Can’t do this every bloody month,’ his father mutters, grabbing Remus by the wrist and pulling him towards the cellar door. Remus is sobbing by now, but he still pulls at his arm, tries to be a dead weight. He’s too small for that to work. Dead or alive, he’s going.

‘Lyall _stop_ , be gentle with him! He’s frightened, you’re scaring him, no one’s explained anything to him—‘

‘Then we’ll do it tomorrow, we don’t have time for this conversation right now. We tell him every month, Hope, and every month we have to put up with this. He knows this is something he has to do. Remus, get up. I don’t want to drag you. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry Da, I was good, I was good today! Please, I’ll be good, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry..’

‘For fuck’s sake, don’t you _understand,_ Remus?’ His father shouts suddenly, and his raised voice makes Remus flinch. His father doesn’t raise his voice, he rarely needs to. ‘This is nothing to do with you being good! It doesn’t matter if you’re good! You don’t have a choice! We don’t have a choice! Why do you have to make things even more difficult? Why do we have to do this every fucking time?’

 _No,_ Remus doesn’t understand, not at all. He doesn’t understand why they keep making him do this. He doesn’t understand what he needs to do to make them stop. He thrashes desperately against his father’s grip but he’s already wrenched the door open, and Remus can _see,_ he can see how dark it is down there, and it just makes him cry more.

‘P-please, I’m sorry Da, I didn’t mean it, I don’t need to go there, please don’t put me there..’

His father pulls him through the door, down into the dark, and Remus has no choice but to stumble after him, his mum just behind. He _hates_ it down here. It’s cold, and it’s dark and he’s alone and when he wakes up he’s scratched and bleeding and hurt and the thought of it all sends new waves of sobs shuddering through him. His father lets go of his wrist once they’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, looking at Remus with far softer eyes than he had been before. He crouches down in front of him where Remus is trembling and crying and runs a thumb over his cheek, swiping away at a few rogue tears. There’s no light down here, and Remus can barely see him save for the glow that trickles down from the open door.

‘I love you, Remus. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I shouted. I’m going..I’m going to find something to make you better. Until then, you have to learn. Just have to. We’ll be here tomorrow.’

Remus just stares at him, vision blurred slightly by his tears. His father leaves, and his mum is here now, stroking his hair and holding his hand. ‘Shh, love, shh. I’m so sorry, Remus, you’re so brave. We love you, we aren’t angry. _Never_ angry. We just have to do this, we have to, I’m so sorry, you’ll understand one day..’

He gives it one last shot. ‘I’m sorry Ma, I’ll be good, I’ll behave, I tried to be good, I promise, I tried. Please d-don’t leave me here.’

‘You know we have to, Remus. You have to be brave for me. Come on now, let’s get ready,’ she murmurs, gently tugging his jumper over his head while he hiccups and sniffles softly. He has no fight left in him. They’re going to leave him here, again. And it’s going to hurt so much.

Once she has his clothes, she takes him over to the corner and sits him down against the wall. ‘We’ll be here as soon as it’s over, okay? We’ll be here. We love you so much, Remus. We’re so sorry,’ she whispers.

‘Such a good boy, Remus.’

And she kisses his forehead and leaves him there. Just before the door shuts, however, fragments of the raised voices of his parents tumble down the stairs towards him.

‘ _Can’t fight him every month..older he gets..dangerous—‘_

_‘Our son! ..his fault, is it?..sick..cold down there..a bed—‘_

_‘Destroys everything! Hope..has to grow up, if Serbia doesn’t work—‘_

The door locks abruptly, and the sounds fall uselessly against the other side of it. He draws his knees into his chest, shivers even after he wraps his arms around himself and squeezes his eyes shut, exiling a few silent tears. No one’s coming for him. They never come for him before morning, which feels years, _decades_ away in a life as small and young as Remus’. And then, in the dark and the cold and the quiet, though he doesn’t know it yet, he feels the moon. And Remus screams.

**Author's Note:**

> just to explain: the potion hope makes Remus drink is, obviously, not wolfsbane, because that wasn’t yet around. it’s just a sorta painkiller potion. and I’m sorry I’m probably awful at writing children omg. anyway, thank u for reading!! ive been thinking about writing something more substantial, with chapters and such, but I’m not sure yet. I appreciate feedback!! thank u!! hope u enjoyed!! if u did u might enjoy my other work 'romulus', which is more young remus stuff (namely, the night he was bitten). thank u!  
> \- ridi


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